


so it is a lover

by perpetualskies



Category: Sand Castle (2017)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Do Not Repost to Other Sites, M/M, Pining, Seemingly unrequited love, alternate universe - Matt is in college and Harper is in the army, background Harper/Anne but it's not endgame i would never!!!!, but like...a LOT of angst, repeated alcohol mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:07:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27636578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perpetualskies/pseuds/perpetualskies
Summary: Matt doesn’t know exactly when it happens, at what specific, terrifying point they’ve crossed the line intotoo late.
Relationships: James Harper/Matt Ocre
Kudos: 4





	so it is a lover

**Author's Note:**

> Title from “A Lover’s Discourse: Fragments” by Roland Barthes (trans. Richard Howard). The full quote goes: _So it is a lover who speaks and who says: “I am engulfed, I succumb...”_
> 
> Inspired by Robyn’s "Dancing On My Own" (both the original and Calum Scott’s cover (specifically, the version from his BGT audition)). I would also like to acknowledge [this](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1026566) Theon/Robb fic that I have read a couple of years ago—I have definitely thought a lot about the mood and atmosphere it conveyed when writing this fic. It’s a wonderful piece that I can only recommend, however, be warned that it WILL break your heart into, like, 4549059 little pieces.
> 
> I’m not quite sure how much of the set-up I should reveal, but the basics are: Matt and Harper went to high school together, Harper being one year above Matt. After high school, Harper enlisted and Matt went to college (he is studying something related to history <3).
> 
> I don’t want to give away too much so I just want to say that the fic is very angst-heavy. Please decide for yourself whether that is something you are currently in the mood for. <3
> 
> Concrit is always welcome. Comments are ❤.

Matt doesn’t know exactly when it happens, at what specific, terrifying point they’ve crossed the line into _too late_. Only knows that things with Anne have been quite serious for a while now; has stupidly believed that they would not get more serious still, at the very _least_ not before Harper shipping out. When Harper tells him, Matt feels like something inside him violently and repeatedly connects with an anvil. He can’t string enough syllables together for any single word he knows.

“What do you say?” Harper asks him, beaming and expectant, and Matt pulls him into a hug instead.

He does get out a _congratulations_ eventually. Tries desperately to come up with something, anything more. Settles on, “That’s— _wow_ ,” emphatically.

“I know, right?” Harper says and grins.

The worst part is the ring. The worst part is when almost nothing changes. The worst part is he’s got a front row seat and absolutely no excuse to pull away. Anne—and maybe _that’s_ the worst part— _there’s nothing wrong with her_ , and not for Matt’s lack of trying to latch on to something either. He isn’t exactly proud of it, and yet even at his most desperate and least sober he can't find a way to blame her, or a reason to tell Harper not to do it, one that extends beyond _because I fucking love you_ , anyway. Matt desperately needs some time and space to process, to clear his mind, to get his act together; to come to terms with how a different Matt and Harper somewhere in the multiverse might get a happier timeline but _this_ will not be _it_. He gets a weekend, Harper and Anne travelling to see her parents; when Harper asks him later what he had been up to, Matt says, “Nothing much,” and shrugs, and looks away. It’s nowhere near enough, Matt _knows_ it isn’t. What other choices does he have?

The worst part—Matt stops thinking about the worst part. There’s only this much time left before Harper ships out, and he is _not_ going to squander that away. He drinks a little more, _okay_. He _might_ be slightly more short-tempered. He lets more older men pay for his drinks, _so what_. But for the most part—who is he _fucking_ kidding. For the most part, it’s a ceaselessly rotating axis of disaster; a parasitic love of gritted teeth and balled-up fists; it’s like watching an accident unfold before you in slow-motion; it’s your heart desperately trying to beat out the knowledge of how it’s all fired up on him, and him alone.

Harper catches on, of course he does. Matt says it’s just the course work. He just hasn’t been sleeping very well. Harper stays sceptical, it’s clear he’s not entirely buying it. Matt’s been _so proud_ of how little his face slipped, and still here Harper is, with all of his proverbial salt in all of Matt’s proverbial wounds.

“If there is anything—” Harper tries, not for the first time.

“There isn’t,” Matt says, just that little bit too fast.

Matt’s got this genius plan that he reverts to whenever it all gets too much, which it regularly does: he’s got to wait it out. That’s it. That is as far as he got. He’s got to wait until Harper leaves for Iraq and then it all will somehow magically get better. Absolutely infallible, that. Harper won’t have time or energy to write and minutes on the sat phone will be a rare commodity, one that will be reserved for Anne. Harper will call her to tell her that he is alright, and that she shouldn’t worry, and that he loves her. Matt will become an afterthought at best.

As far as the actual wedding, there is no plan. Matt blocks it out and fakes excitement and frequently imagines convenient accidents that would put him in the hospital the night before. Nothing _too_ serious—just serious enough. He certainly doesn’t think about Harper in a suit, how hard his hands’d be shaking, the way his voice would crack saying the vows. Matt’s his best man. He is supposed to make a speech, to celebrate their union. Matt wants to laugh out loud at that. Sometimes he does.

It still works, is what’s maybe ~~absolutely the worst part~~. It still is them, the way they’ve always been. Harper still comes round to his dorm with video tapes and pizza; they still burrow under one and the same blanket, and leave too many crumbs all over it. Harper still remembers Matt’s exams and deadlines, still asks about his mother’s check-ups, offering to drive. He still gets Matt’s orders right even when Matt forgets to tell him what he wanted, still pulls him into hugs that last dangerously long for somebody like Matt. He still is the very first person Matt thinks to call in an emergency or when there’s news to celebrate; still is the last thing on his mind before he sleeps. It’s what it is, there is no way around it: he still he still he still he still.

Matt’s mom isn’t any help to him either. She’s so excited, having always treated Harper like a son. Whenever they talk, she keeps pressing Matt for details about the wedding, making him promise to pass her suggestions or advice or recipes along. Talks about how she can’t wait to finally meet Anne, and Matt thinks: _absolutely not_. He’s failing to adjust, is struggling with how fast things keep on moving forward; he’d always thought he’d have more _time_ —to tell him, maybe, or to wane himself off his emotions. To figure something out that isn’t _this_.

His body didn’t get the memo either; it’s like he’s never wanted Harper more. Matt feels _so fucking dirty_ but how else, exactly, is he supposed to deal with it? He’s _tried_ hooking up with other people, for all the good it did him. Has, by God, _tried_ ignoring it. It always creeps back in, vivid and borderline lascivious; never lets up suggesting just how _good_ Matt could be, all for him. He can’t stop noticing things either: a T-shirt riding up, a flex of muscle; the snug fit of a sweater gifted by Matt’s mom, its sleeves rolled up. All things he’s seen a thousand times already except that now they seem to have conspired against him, banded together, gloating; devised a shameless plot to make him press his hips into the mattress, to make his hand move of its own accord.

He’s made it to stag night and there is still no plan, just panic, and a toast he cobbled together while drinking something godawful straight from the pitcher and listening to a nineties hits CD his room mate had made for a theme party. It made him nostalgic. It made him fucking nauseous. It made him think of high school, and the way he would sit on the bleachers watching Harper train, doing his AP history homework and listening to some of the same songs on repeat. Back then, they were just friends and that had been _okay_. All that had mattered was looking for each other during lunch, waiting for the other to finish training, the way Harper would turn and beam at him each time he scored a goal. Sometimes, on colder days, he would leave Matt his sweater. Sometimes Matt would forget to give it back. Matt didn’t know, back then, that maybe if he had reached out, had put it all together faster—maybe on one of those nights they were in Harper’s car, just driving, maybe on one of those days spent in the sun when Matt felt warm and giddy, falling asleep with Harper in the grass.

The bar is crowded even though it’s a week night, stuffy and way too loud before he’s even properly inside—Matt’s never wanted to be anywhere less in his entire life. There are a couple friends of Harper’s he’s made in the army, some more from high school. Matt is continuously feeling like he is spinning out of orbit, losing an already precarious balance, even before he’s had anything to drink. He cannot stand any of the dirty jokes and insinuations, all of the questions about a life Harper is going to build with someone that will not be him. He drinks a little bit too fast, laughs just a little bit too loud and not always in the right places, goes to the bathroom way too many times. He seriously considers bolting—not just out of the bar, but to somewhere far away where there will be no weddings to attend, no RSVPs to fucking out of your best friend’s life for good. It’s not like this isn’t what it will factually come down to anyway—there is _no way_ he’ll manage carrying on like this after the wedding, his face slipping too many times already as it is.

He’s in the bathroom once again, staring at his reflection in the mirror, willing the night to go by faster, when the door opens and Harper steps inside.

“You okay?” he asks. Matt glances at him through the mirror. He looks concerned, has probably been keeping an eye on him all night. It makes Matt irritated almost, how nothing ever seems to get past him. You don’t even _think_ he knows, but Harper always does. Always gives you the chance to work it out on your terms also. Is never not there when you can’t. He’s going to make an excellent team leader one day. He’s _never_ going to leave anyone behind.

“Yeah.” Matt nods and turns on the faucet even though he doesn’t need to wash his hands. “Just—” Just _what_? I am in love with you so much my hands are unable to stop shaking? I can’t even let other people touch me anymore? I fucking—I fucking _do not have_ a wedding present? I do not know how I’m supposed to move on from this, to let anything, or anyone, ever, take your place?

“Matt,” Harper says, and raises a gentle hand to his shoulder. Matt feels exceedingly on the verge of something terrible and cruel and everything he’s ever wanted all at once. Maybe he doesn’t need to bolt, he realises; maybe all it takes is a little direct action, and things will stop dead in their tracks, right here, right now, in terms of everything at once.

Matt sucks in a breath and turns to look at Harper. Remembers the first time he realised how deeply he had linked himself to him, how inextricably and hopelessly intertwined their lives had already become. How one day, they were sitting on his bedroom floor and playing _Tekken_. How Matt looked over and suddenly knew everything and nothing all at once. If he had done it then, who knows what would have happened. Maybe he would have lost a friend. Maybe he would have gained much more than he had ever dared to hope. Maybe he wouldn’t be where he is right this second, his vitals spiking like he is about to walk into rush hour traffic, feeling so sharply like he’s running out of memories to make.

Matt steps in close and walks Harper back until his shoulders connect with the wall behind him. He rests his hands flat on his chest, and then, because it is the only thing that still makes sense to him, leans in, brushing a kiss, chaste, sweet and slow, against his lips. Because Harper is getting _married_ and going to _Iraq_ and if he doesn’t do it now, he never will, and maybe— _definitely_ —that would be the right, the decent thing to do, the thing best friends do for each other, or refrain from doing, anyway. But Matt is not Harper’s best friend right now; he’s no idea _who_ you have to be to do something as reprehensible and irredeemable as this. His heart thuds like a war drum in his chest, an overdue, entirely useless warning. He slides one hand up to rest on Harper’s shoulder, moving the other one along his neck to gently cup his jaw. He kisses him again, and then another time to really drive the point home, then stays where he is, too scared to open his eyes and move away, into the distinct possibility of getting his ass kicked, or even worse—just silence. He doesn’t have to, though, because next thing he knows, Harper is kissing him right back.

It’s gentle, careful and testing, some hidden, untranslated meaning spelled out against his lips. Matt feels a hand come up to his hip, another moving up his side, round to his back, pulling him further in. It tastes like every summer they have spent together, like every rainy day they’ve dwindled away together on the phone; a little bit like lime and mint mixed with white rum and sugar, and every single one of those nights Matt would sneak out to meet him in his car.

Objectively, Matt doesn’t even know if he’s still breathing; everything inside him streamlines towards Harper, seeks to attach itself with no intent of ever letting go. He grows a little bolder, kisses deeper, feels Harper’s hand fist in his shirt, the other winding tightly around his waist. It gets a little messy, a little frantic; Harper’s hand moves down to cup his ass and Matt lets slip a moan, cut-off, into his mouth. Matt wants so bad for time to pass a little slower, to drive a wedge between this second and the next; for Harper’s hands to never leave his body; for nothing in the world to make as much sense as this does.

It doesn’t last, because how could it. Dread rises in Matt’s chest at what he’s done. His thoughts are jumbled, just _how_ drunk _is_ he? They’re in a restroom. Harper is getting married in five days. Matt pulls away, and Harper lets him. He looks just as heartbroken as Matt feels. Matt’s never seen him like this, not even— _never_. Matt’s drunk _a little_ , that’s why his thoughts are jumbled; that’s why it makes no sense, the way that Harper kissed him back. The music from the bar seems louder, too, unbearably obnoxious. He’s got no fucking clue how long they’ve stayed away.

“Matt,” Harper says softly. Matt is acutely aware of every remaining point of contact: the hand enclosed around his forearm, the fingers resting at his hip. Matt doesn’t know a single word that wouldn’t sound parodic at this moment. He cannot look at Harper any longer; he can’t believe he’s made this even worse.

Matt stumbles out of the bathroom seeing double. He grabs his jacket, saying something about how he doesn’t feel too well. He doesn’t look back to see if Harper followed. He doesn’t look back until he is at least two blocks away, his mind still spinning out, his lungs still struggling to draw in air.

The nights are getting colder fast, and Matt shivers as he hurries across a part of town he doesn’t know particularly well. He has to stop a couple of times to figure out which way to continue; he desperately wishes that he smoked. He doesn’t feel drunk anymore, or any of those things that made him do— _that_ , he only feels a coward; if he were in the army, he’d be the one kid desperately trying to wash out.

It’s late when he finally makes it back on campus; his room mate seems to be asleep already, so Matt tiptoes through the common room without turning on any of the lights. His room is cool, and he doesn’t turn on the light there either; just collapses onto his bed, barely able to convince himself to at least kick off his shoes. The moonlight falls in through the window sharply, like an accusation; Matt feels for the comforter, pulling it up to block some of it out, and curls in on himself. He thinks his jaw, his lips, the way he’d licked into him; the way his hands moved on Matt’s body like touching him is all they’ve ever done.

Matt wakes up wishing it were any other day but this one. He’s scared to check his phone, and when he finally does, there’s nothing there. He’s not sure if he’s more disappointed or relieved—apparently, quite idiotically, _he’s still hoping_. Congratulations, Matt thinks to himself, on being certifiably the worst and most pathetic person on this earth. He finally shucks the clothes from the night before, then moves about the room putting together a passably clean outfit; he doesn’t feel like going to the dining hall, and so he finishes the last of the banana bread his mother sent him, washing it down with some red bull. He tries to shut it out, all of it, altogether; to buy himself a little time, not fall apart before it’s even time for lunch. He sits down at his desk, half-heartedly looking through the stacks of notes and books and transcripts that have accumulated there over the past couple of weeks. Somewhere in there _must_ be something that can serve as a distraction, is what he figures. He finds a wedding invitation in its stead.

Matt turns his phone off multiple times but he can’t stand not knowing either and turns it back on every time. He jumps when he gets a message sometime past midday; it’s just him mom, asking if he’ll be home the weekend after this. Matt briefly considers calling her, if not to tell her exactly what has happened then to at least—he doesn’t even know. He doesn’t, in the end, knows that she _will_ bring up the wedding, and what is Matt going to say? He types up half a dozen messages himself, all some variant of _I’m sorry_ —they all feel laughable and inappropriate, and only seem to make it worse, if that is even possible at this point.

He showers eventually, then starts packing his book bag for the only class he has that afternoon. He _does_ consider simply not going, seeing how out of it he’s feeling, but that would only leave him with more time to fill, more time to uselessly go over things he should and shouldn’t have done. He doesn’t know what exactly it is he’s waiting for—and he _is_ waiting for something—it’s not like Harper’ll come around, cordially thanking him for being the total fuck-up that he is. He can’t help waiting nonetheless; he doesn’t know what he will do if Harper never calls at all.

The sky is bleak when Matt makes his way back across the campus. He ignores the dining hall again, even though he _is_ actually hungry; it’s stupid but he feels like he doesn’t _deserve_ to eat. Inside his room, he falls back onto his bed and casts an arm across his eyes, trying to think of something, anything but Harper. He realises he is nodding off and counts that as a partial success. He dreams of something messy, something entirely too convoluted—Harper in his uniform, a stack of wedding invitations all addressed to him, the names on them not making any sense. His mother saying _he’s my son, regardless_ ; his mother not saying anything at all.

When Matt wakes up it’s dark, he feels light-headed; he rolls onto his side and cries. He doesn’t feel sorry for himself, he just feels—sorry. He’ll give himself an hour, maybe two, before he’ll call him on his own. It makes it easier to get up, to turn the heating on, to drink some water. To actually start sorting through some notes.

Matt puts some music on, that’s why he must have missed it; his room mate knocks and says there is somebody at the door. Everything inside him instantly seizes, then washes over with adrenalin. There is the briefest moment of hesitation, followed by a decided hell _fucking_ no, he _did_ this. The least that he could do is look him in the eye.

Harper looks as shit as Matt is feeling, frankly speaking. He’s pale, making the deep circles under his eyes stand particularly out. Matt isn’t quite sure but he thinks he might be wearing the same clothes that he was wearing yesterday; he does and doesn’t want to know. He cannot gauge Harper’s expression; he’s never had a harder time pinpointing what the other feels. Everything in Matt wants to reach out and touch him—it used to be so easy, the way that Matt would always lean into him, the quiet, unscripted way their bodies would find each other on their own.

Matt swallows; he wants to say _I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry. I can pretend. I’ll leave. We’ll never speak of it again._

Instead he asks, “Are you still getting married?” Everything stills in gut-clenching anticipation of a _yes_.

Harper visibly winces and Matt almost regrets it until he decides that _no_ , he _doesn’t_ , because what else in the entire world is there to ask.

“I thought,” says Harper quietly, “that we should talk about that,” and Matt nods, stepping aside to let him in.

**Author's Note:**

> I’m not promising anything but I do definitely have ideas for a sequel where we get to see them deal with the immediate fallout from all of this, and actually get together. Because they WILL get together, that I can assure you of. <3


End file.
